As I made my way through the vast horizontal rows of blueberry bushes overlooking Mt. Hood, the coldness of the morning air took with it the tiredness of five hours of sleep from my body. This coldness was later missed as the burning sun beat down on me as I crouched down reaching for the bluest blueberries to fill my bucket. As drops of sweat descended from my forehead, with every step I took the sweatpants and long sleeved shirt I wore stuck to my body. Every day after work I rubbed my hands together to remove the dirt that had settled in the cracks between my fingers, but it stubbornly clung. The air hit my fresh scratches and stung. "You do not have to do this forever," I reminded myself every day.
Every summer, even before I was legally
Every summer, even before I was legally